


A Fine Imitation

by lireside



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Aerith Week 2021, Aerith's Remake dress is a nightgown and nobody can convince me otherwise, Fashion & Couture, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29309670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lireside/pseuds/lireside
Summary: Aerith covets the fine fashions that fill Sector 8's boutiques. They're a bit beyond her reach, but she's always been crafty — if she can't buy it outright, then she'll just make it herself. Luckily for her, the slums' strangest shop has exactly what she needs.For Aerith Week 2021, day three: Red & Pink Dress.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 7





	A Fine Imitation

"Oh, honey. I can't fix this."

Aerith's lip trembled. "What do you mean?"

Elmyra simply held the dress up. The pink skirt had a series of massive holes in it — one on each knee, two inches wide, worn down by years of kneeling in the garden without an apron. The stains were deep, the fabric was worn bare, and the straps were barely hanging on by a thread. None of the buttons on the front were original, and some of the gaps were held together by safety pins. The dress had gotten in the habit of poking Aerith at inopportune times. 

Aerith was loathe to admit it, but she saw her mother's point. The dress had already been repaired a dozen times; a few stitches here, a little stain remover there, a few subtle patches that didn't quite blend into the fabric. Aerith absolutely adored that dress, and her mother knew it, which is why she had picked up sewing in the first place — but even her talents had limits.

"I can put some more patches on it," Elmyra said hesitantly, "but it's on its last legs. Why don't you go shopping for a new dress?"

"I don't—" Aerith sighed. "I didn't sell many flowers this week," she admitted.

"Oh, that's fine." Elmyra stood up and fetched her wallet. "I only have twenty gil, but that should be enough, right?"

Not quite, but Aerith wasn't about to say otherwise. She smiled, hugged her mother, and shoved the gil in her bag. "Can I borrow one of your dresses for today?"

And so Aerith took off, dressed in a pale yellow sundress that Elmyra had kept from her girlhood. It was uncomfortably tight and _just_ a bit itchy, but Aerith was sure she wouldn't have to wear it for very long. If she managed to sell a few more flowers, she might be able to buy something that'd stand up to the scrutiny of her garden. Or an apron. Or both, ideally. 

After a short train ride, spent squirming against the itchy fabric, Aerith arrived in topside Sector 8. She plastered a bright smile on her face and strolled down the street, flower basket swinging in her arms. Aerith knew the best ways to sell her wares — a congenial attitude, a gentle smile, a bit of flirting if nothing else worked — but her usual techniques didn't seem to be working. Every person she made eye contact with quickly scurried away, as if she were poison.

It wasn't until she stopped at a food stall that she found out what was going on. Shinra had posted their annual financial report after weeks of delay, and their profits had taken a nosedive. The growing terrorist activities outside Midgar had made foreign companies — the ones that weren't already beholden to Shinra — less eager to invest in the corporation that ruled their sad city. Every employee, minus the C-Suite, had lost their bonuses.

Well, Aerith was glad to know it wasn't _her_ , but the truth of the matter didn't help her situation any. She glumly made her way back to the train station. How long would it be until she could turn a profit on the upper plate? Weeks? Months? 

Aerith's gaze bore into the cobblestone road. It wasn't until she reached the end of the street that she looked up, and in that moment, something caught her eye. Something shiny. 

Sector 8 was the nicest of Midgar's topside communities, and its status was reflected in its endless boutiques. 5th Street ran from the edge of the plate to Shinra's headquarters in the centre of the city, and it was lined with stores that sold every type of fashion under the sun. They even sold Aerith's favourite: ballgowns. 

Aerith strolled over to the store and stared inside. The dress on the mannequin was the most glorious thing she'd ever seen. It was made of endless organza and tulle, clinched at the waist and loose at the hips. The trim was lined with a massive ruffle that gave it an otherworldly appearance, as if the dress were floating on air. Aerith was sure that if she put it on and spun in it, she'd look like a piece of glittering, cotton-pink candy. And honestly, wasn't that the fun thing about fashion? The whimsicality of it all? Wearing whatever you liked, just for the fun of it, no matter what everybody else thought?

After a solid minute of philosophizing over the beauty of the dress, Aerith realized the shopkeeper inside was giving her a pointed look. She strolled through the open doors and tried to hide her old sundress with her flower basket. "I like your dress," Aerith told the shopkeeper, though she didn't know why she bothered — she clearly wasn't the intended client.

The shopkeeper wasted no time in telling Aerith what she thought of her. "You couldn't afford it."

A hot burst of fury gripped Aerith's chest. Sector 8's residents could certainly be haughty, but they've never been so openly contemptuous before. "Well, I didn't want it anyway," she hissed, which was an absolute lie, but she stuck with it anyway. She turned gracefully on one heel and strode out of the shop. 

Honestly! Even a Shinra middle manager wouldn't have been able to afford that dress! Would it have killed that shopkeeper to be just a little bit kinder? The comment gnawed at her, even though she knew she was in the right. Aerith spent the train ride back to the slums holding back tears. By the end of the ride, she felt utterly stupid. 

It was just fabric! A hunk of tulle with organza on top! The only thing that made it a dress was the waist taper. _Anybody_ could make something like it. Aerith had seen plenty of cheap tulle bolts in the slums, it wouldn't even take that much effort to make it herself—

A lightbulb went off. The train stopped in Sector 5, and Aerith walked off the platform with a newfound sense of purpose. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She'd made plenty of things with slum scraps — her flower basket was one of them, painfully woven together with scavenged pieces of wood — and she could make this dress too. Then she'd take it to the upper plate and model it for the uppity shopkeeper that raised her nose at her. 

Aerith took a detour down Elm Street. It had discount shops of all kinds; none of them were specifically devoted to fabric, but they usually carried a few random bolts on their floors. It might take a while to hunt down the perfect material, but Aerith was convinced she'd eventually find it. 

Maybe. Perhaps. Aerith stopped in the first store and found their fabric: all cheap satin in garish colours. She was willing to compromise on tulle and organza, since they weren't the best everyday materials, but surely she could find something better than _this_. 

After three hunts in miscellaneous stores, all fruitless, Aerith strolled across the street. The next store had a garish lace display, but she didn't bother to investigate it before she walked inside. She only had an hour before she was expected home—

Oh no.

Aerith froze in the middle of the store. The ancient shopkeeper peeled herself away from the cash register and approached her with eager hands. "Oh, my dear," she crooned, "you must be here for your trousseau."

She'd walked into _that_ store.

The shopkeeper was famous in the Sector 5 slums. Her husband was one of the mafia leaders that ruled the place, though he was certainly getting up there in years, and he'd given the lingerie shop to his darling wife to keep her occupied while he wreaked havoc on their lives. That was fifty years ago, and all of the fashions inside reflected that fact — Aerith assumed they were all antiques from the time before Midgar was Midgar. "My what?" Aerith asked.

"Your trousseau, dear." The shopkeeper tutted. "The clothes you'll take with you when you get married. Every bride must have one. However will you face your husband without it?"

Before Aerith could react (she certainly wasn't getting married any time soon), the old woman grabbed her hand and tugged her to a display. "Every bride in Shirekku has an item from this shop," the shopkeeper told her. "You prefer lighter colours, yes? They suit your complexion." 

_Shirekku?_ Aerith was about to ask what that was, until she realized it must've been the name of the village that preceded Sector 5. "Um—"

"Yes, lighter colours, most definitely." The shopkeeper shoved her hand into a dusty rack of items and emerged with the strangest bra Aerith had ever seen. It ended several inches below the bust, with ribbon lacing in the back. Aerith felt the strangest sensation of being squeezed around the middle as she looked at it. "The boning on these stays is softer, so it won't hurt your delicate skin."

Aerith gulped. "I'm okay," she insisted. "I have plenty of things like that."

The shopkeeper nodded sagely. "Of course you do. Has your mother prepared you well?" They shifted a few feet, and the shopkeeper started rifling through another rack. She kept her left hand firmly gripped around Aerith's own, and it was starting to lose circulation. "My mother didn't. I had no idea what to expect. It was certainly an illuminating experience when my husband and I finally—"

She interrupted herself as she pulled something from the rack. "What about this, dear? You can never have enough nightgowns."

Aerith took in the details. It was pale pink and made of a light, breathable linen. The ruffle on the hem wasn't quite as fanciful as the dress she'd seen earlier, but there was a certain loveliness to it that Aerith couldn't shake. It was like a demure, everyday version of the grand gown. "This is a nightgown?" Aerith said in disbelief. It didn't look like one.

"Indeed. I've been having trouble selling it, though I have no idea why. Isn't it lovely?" The woman shook the garment, spreading dust in the air. "Would you like to try it on?"

It was only then that the woman let go of Aerith's hand. A part of her wanted to take advantage of her newfound freedom and run away, but her other half was honestly curious about the dress — and the fact that Aerith desperately needed _something_ new to wear. "Yeah, I would," Aerith murmured thoughtfully. 

The changing room was filled with overstock. Aerith dodged cardboard boxes and stray hangers as she struggled out of her mother's dress. An entire stack of shoeboxes crashed on the ground, which caught the shopkeeper's attention. She hovered just outside the curtain, ready to assist at a moment's notice. "Do you need any help, dear?"

"I'm okay, thank you!" Aerith hastily gathered the spilled boxes and set them upright, threw the yellow dress on top of them, and shimmied into the nightgown. The waist was cinched by a dark pink ribbon, and she tied it into a bow. 

To Aerith, it looked like a regular summer dress. She smiled and gave it a twirl. "Can I wear this home?" 

The shopkeeper sputtered. "Absolutely not! That nightgown is for your honeymoon!"

Right. Aerith reluctantly got dressed and strode up to the cash. It was only two gil, which made no sense, but Aerith figured the store's prices hadn't yet adjusted for inflation. The shopkeeper took it, folded it in wrapping paper, and gently set it into a burgundy bag that had gone brown with age.

She held it out to Aerith to take. The look on the shopkeeper's face was purposeful, as if she were offering Aerith the secrets of life itself. "I wish you and your husband much happiness."

"Right, um, thanks," Aerith stammered. "I'll tell him you said hi." 

Aerith raced back home and promptly told Elmyra about her day. Her mother laughed to the point of tears. "Well, go on then!" She pointed to the bathroom. "Let's see the nightgown!"

The dress fluttered in the air as she spun. The spinning skirts, while not confectionary, looked lovely in the light of the artificial setting sun. Elmyra smiled. "Nobody could ever tell," she told Aerith, who beamed. "You lucked out!"

"Yeah, I did," Aerith blissfully sighed. She ran to her bedroom, stood in front of her mirror, and investigated the new dress from every angle. It might not have been the gown of her dreams, but it was certainly a fine imitation. 


End file.
